I wasn't sure if I should post something today. Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett have died, and even though I didn't know them personally, I feel like I should say something about them. But beyond liking Charlie's Angels and the Thriller video when I was a kid, I don't have much more to offer. And certainly there are a slew of reporters and pundits and acquaintances and anchorpeople and Ryan O'Neals (did you see how much work he's had??) who have offered their touching tributes.
So now I need to find a segue between the deaths of two larger-than-life celebrities and what I really want to write about (again): the gynecologist.
Umm...eerr...Beat it...stirrups...no...oh frick, I'll just dive in.
The thing is, I'm mad (you're shocked, I know). Even though I called and made an appointment and asked specifically to see a female doctor because I am only comfortable having a woman doctor peruse the majestic she-clam that is my nether region, the office duped me again.
I’m actually starting to think there’s a note in my chart that says: “Patient is pain in ass. Demands female doc. Lie and say all female docs have been called into surgery. Send in Dr. Bob.”
Fricken Dr. Bob.
See, this is how I envision a man becoming a gynecologist: In college, at a frat party, a group of drunk guys chants, “Let’s be gy-nos! Let’s be gy-nos!” and one of them takes it seriously and enrolls in med school. The end.
(If you’re a male gynecologist and you’re reading this, I'm sorry for painting you with such a suspicious brush. If you want to set the record straight on how a male chooses the profession, please do so. I’d be tickled to hear your rationale.)
Anyway, in addition to being a man, Dr. Bob is so geriatric that:
a) I wait for him to bounce me on his knee after the appointment and offer me a Werther's Original
b) he wears one of these:
It’s a little disconcerting when gramps dons a headlamp and tells you to “Scoot down.” What pray tell is he looking for in there? Canaries? Coal? And I’m tired of scooting down. I don’t want to scoot down! I’m paying you—move your ass up to me.
So that’s it. As if my brush with the Ryan Seacrest of Dunkin Donuts wasn't enough, I had to don the itchy paper robe for the dreaded Dr. Bob. I'm thinking of switching practices. I'm annoyed.
What about you? Do you mind seeing a male doctor? My friend's father-in-law is an OBGYN and delivered all her kids. She didn't think anything of it. All I can say is, Christmas get togethers? Ewwww.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.